


The Things I Say

by pied_r_piper



Series: It Takes A Village [1]
Category: Digimon Adventure Zero Two | Digimon Adventure 02
Genre: F/M, Family Feels, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2020-01-05 22:45:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18375611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pied_r_piper/pseuds/pied_r_piper
Summary: Mimi takes her son to buy new shoes.





	The Things I Say

_There's an old trick played_  
_When the light and the wine conspire_  
_To make me think I'm fine_  
_I'm not, but I have got half a mind_  
_To maybe get there, yet_

("The Things I Say" by Joanna Newsom)

* * *

It shakes her, the first time her son tries to insult her on purpose. Mimi can understand, even in the same moment it happens, that his words hurl out of frustration and petulance, annoyed at the presentation of a task he's uninterested in. She can know that he's twelve now, that he doesn't want to be seen with her too much outside the house, not for clothes shopping, and not at the shops where she'd likely force him to go. She can remember what twelve was like, how important it had become so suddenly then to be so assured, so defiant, so grown up. Mimi can know all these things, listening as he yells at her, "You're a lousy parent," and still want to yell back,  _And I'm the one who stayed_.

She doesn't. Instead, she slaps the end of the dishtowel across the board game they'd been playing at the kitchen table, scattering the tiny round disks over the table. "I said,  _up_."

"Ma!"

She's already turned away from them, returning the towel to its hook. "If you're not up by the time I turn around, you can forget about new  _anything_  this year. Don't try me."

It's enough, because it gets at the core of the most recurring of his complaints in recent months, the ever-growing pressure of keeping up with the pre-teen fashion a perpetual stress. The chairs skid back, and she catches a low warning being passed down, the way family lore moves, too. "Take it from me, son—it's best not test her in one of these moods."

She waits for the little head to duck around the hallway, then turns around, pressing the small of her back to the edge of the kitchen counter. She has arms over her lower chest, another thing that's too much like her mother. "And which mood would that be, Daddy?"

The wrinkle at the bridge of his long nose lifts the round spectacles to a comical height, with a cheeky smirk thrown in for good measure. "The mood that lets me raincheck the family outing?"

Her teeth pull on a plump bottom lip as she takes a breath. "You're supposed to be spending time with him."  _Because he doesn't want to spend time with me_ , is what she doesn't say, except that's what Keisuke hears.

He reroutes his answer to it anyway, wise enough to do it gently. "Back to school shopping should be a guardian-child tradition. I'll stay here an prepare dinner." It's a tempting offer, but what it will cost her isn't. He can read this calculation on her face. "It'll be good for you two to talk."

Mimi just looks at him, eyes narrowing and mouth in a pout. She allows herself a minute before asking, "Was I like that?"

"Much more so," Keisuke laughs. "You don't remember how you used to go home from school by taxi, so your friends wouldn't see the kind of car I drove?"

She does, but she didn't know he'd known, and she's dismayed all the more so for it. "How'd you figure that?"

"Honey, I paid your credit card—which you were only supposed to use for emergencies."

"It  _was_  an emergency," she mutters, then starts giggling along with him, face in her hand. "It was such an ugly van, Daddy—,"

Keisuke shrugs, palms open, perfectly understanding the indefensibility of his taste in cars. "Oh, I know. Your mother used to go shopping by taxi, too."

Mimi goes to stand behind him where he sits, and slips her arms around his neck, kissing the top of his head. "We were so bad at appreciating you."

He pats the back of her hands where they wrap around his chest. "Wouldn't have changed a thing about it."

"Don't lie."

He pinches her wrists. "Don't worry about him. Being twelve is all about being an asshole."

She snorts at the word choice, and squeezes her arms around him again, grateful.

The little one's back, mood pasted so plain on his face that Mimi's already regretting agreeing to her father's choices. He makes a deliberate show of not speaking to her, saying goodbye to his grandfather in a rather loud voice, and stomping even more loudly to the door. She takes her time choosing which light jacket to pull on over her work blouse, slowing her movements down for every second he adds to his impatient exhale behind her. "We'll be back in an hour, Daddy," she calls into the apartment on the way out, and Keisuke calls back, "Oh, good, plenty of time to burn the house down."

This, apparently, seems to distract the boy's surliness. "You let Grandpa cook?"

"He's not that bad."

The silence makes her grin, a habit of timing she thinks he got from his dad, since she's never been known to be that discreet in her reactions. She stretches a hand towards him, and, to her even greater surprise, he allows it. They walk down the block that way, together, her fingers cupping his curly hair. It's at the corner that she feels him shift under her touch, and she lets go, only to realize that he'd moved not to evade her as they entered the more populated part of their street, but to retrieve his phone from his jeans pocket.

"If I can't have my first choice, can we at least see about these ones?" and he holds up his phone to her.

She laughs in his face. "Not with those prices, we can't."

"Are we really that poor?" he exclaims, the horror palpable in his shrill voice.

"You have everything you need."

"Ma—,"

The look she gives him makes him stop, but he still mutters under his breath, picking up his pace to move ahead of her on the sidewalk. Mimi lets him, watching his shoulders slump a little as he stuffs his fists into his pockets, head bent, and she wants to tell him to stand up straight, to fix his hair, to unclench his jaw. She wants him to know she has more things to be angry about than he does, that he has no idea how much she has to do to get the little bit he needs every few months for these growth-spurt purchases, how much more she had already set aside this time because she still felt bad about not letting him get the pair he'd wanted the last time they'd gone to the shoe store. She wants to be the bigger person, the adult, the kind of parent who doesn't hold her status as provider over his head.

But she's tired, and still hurt, and so tired. So she just lets him walk ahead of her, quickening his pace as they reach the small grouping of neighborhood shops, and doesn't even scold him when he shoves open the door to the children's shoe store so hard the chime at the top nearly cracks. She does stop the door from falling shut too quickly, entering just as a familiar tan face approaches, beaming his wide, charming grin.

"Back again?" greets Daisuke, cheerful.

"Growing up like clockwork," answers Mimi. "He needs a new pair for school."

"Yeah, he looks real excited about it." When the joke does nothing, Daisuke bends over a bit, still grinning wide. "What's going on, little man? End of the break getting to you, keeping you down?" He keeps going, nonstop, as usual, "Or is it more troublesome? Worried about having to see a certain someone back at school now that you're older and wiser and street smart? What's it, a special girl? Boy? Neither, other?"

His face does not change, expressing masterful control of his emotions in the presence of the exact opposite.

"Right," says Daisuke, unperturbed. "Let's just do the shoes, hm?"

Without a word, the little one turns to the row of sneakers displayed on the far wall, hands still in his pockets, and leaving Daisuke to stretch his mouth into a long, guilty grimace.

He slides up to Mimi, pausing, "I went too far with the crush joke, didn't I?"

"It's not you," assures Mimi. "He's been moodier than normal all week."

"Well, with those genes."

She feigns an astonished, insulted face, hand to her chest. "I thought you loved me."

"More than life," he swears, and crosses his heart. Then he jerks his chin at him. "Want me to talk to little guy, man to man, son to son?"

Mimi smiles and shakes her head. "It's fine. He just needs to be twelve."

"Jesus, really? Look at the size of him! You sure he's not still eight?"

"Oh, what a lovely way to get him to feel better about his problems," she admires mockingly, and he stands up, back rigid and chin high.

"Hey, okay, height isn't everything," he points out, looking her straight in the eye, because he can now, physically.

She leans in to kiss his cheek. "Nothing in the triple digits."

"Yes, sir," salutes Daisuke, and he marches forward, joining him at the display wall.

Mimi takes a seat on the spare cushioned bench by register, watching as the pair discuss the options. There's a bit of her that's relieved it's Daisuke on shift that evening; his coworkers, and the little shop's owner, would have likely attempted to skirt the budget line wherever they could. But Daisuke's too honest to be good as a salesman, which strangely still makes him one: he's popular, friendly, and candid, and the loyalty of his client base isn't one pushiness secures. That, Mimi surmises, or he's just silly enough to make the younger clients a little more pleased with their performance of comparative maturity to make the kids want to go anywhere else anyway. It's part of the other reason she still takes her son here, even if he'd rather go to the more reputable, on-brand stores. She'd rather go there, too, to be honest, but single parenting on a fixed income isn't particularly forgiving of such spending habits, yet another life she had to grow out of so suddenly.

She waits, watching the pair go through pairs and pairs, Daisuke's infamous patience holding up to the preteen's equally infamous snark. They return some moments later with two options, and she can already tell there's going to be another fight, but Daisuke knows her, too, and manages to sort out the options for him in ways that are strangely effective, meeting him kid logic for kid logic. It nearly works, until she has to weigh in, reminding her son she won't be spending more than he can outgrow, which will come again in just a few months more time.

"That's not the point," he says back through gritted teeth, clutching the box of the pair he liked better.

"The point," she interrupts, "is you getting new shoes, which we are, not getting whatever you want, which we aren't."

"That's because we never do what I want," he snaps angrily. "I didn't even want to come here."

Daisuke pats his shoulder, "I could probably get some discounts at the designer store next town over, you know." The little one immediately looks at her, hopeful, but Mimi's own anger returns then, while Daisuke looks guilty at intervening in an unhelpful way, as though just realizing he'd done so, too. "Ah, I mean, uh—maybe, not really, not sure—,"

Mimi takes the other box that Daisuke had been holding and places it on the counter. "We'll take this, thanks."

"Ma—,"

"That's enough."

"Your mom's probably right about this," Daisuke tells him gently, and he slams the box he holds onto the counter.

"What do you know anyway?" he shouts, then stamps to the door.

Mimi calls after him, "We're not done here—,"

The door just slams again, and she makes to go after him, before realizing the shoes on the counter. Daisuke shakes his head, assuring, "I'll hold them to the side. You go, come back whenever, I'll still be here."

"Thanks, Dais," she mutters, huffing, and hurries to the door before she can lose sight of his small stature sulking too far away.

"Call me, or any of us, if—," but Daisuke doesn't get to finish before they're gone, knowing she already knows.

He's already made it to the end of the block by the time she catches up with him, taking him by the elbow so hard it pinches. She can feel the way her son's thin, soft skin nearly tears under the force of her anger, and it's that image of damage that stills her own horrified heart, immediately letting go just as he gasps, yanking his arm back.

They stand there, looking at each other, struggling to breathe.

It's Mimi who recovers her voice, turning to point back in the direction they'd come from. "We're going home." He doesn't protest, nor does he answer. Instead, they just walk together, apart, in silence. His arm is stinging only a little, while she wants nothing more than to cut off her own hand.

A few blocks later, he speaks up. His tone is softer now, not quite regretful, but no longer full of heat. She's not sure what he's thinking, and only knows that she just wants him to keep talking to her, about anything, so she can tell him she's sorry, for messing up, for being mean, for not quite understanding, for still getting so much of this life wrong.

"What are we going to do if Grandpa really does burn the house down?"

"Move," she answers, automatic, matching his quiet voice with her own.

"With Grandpa?"

"Depends on how severe the damage is."

"I like having him live with us."

"Me, too."

"So you're not going to make him leave?"

Mimi glances at him, eyebrow raised. "What are you talking about?"

He shrugs, hanging his head a bit lower. They turn a corner, and continue walking, but the pace has slowed. "I heard you. On the phone last week. You said things had to change, and you weren't going to wait for him to decide about when."

She stops so suddenly he does also, looking back at her with mirrored hazel eyes. "You heard that?" When he doesn't move, she adds in a softer voice, realizing, "Is that why you've been so upset lately?"

He nods, looking so much younger as he does so. Everything about his is small right now, vulnerable, but still so grown.

"Baby," she starts, taking a breath, "that wasn't about you, or Grandpa. I was talking to your dad."

He doesn't respond right away, nor does he lift his head. She gives him a minute to think over this new information, knowing she'll have to be honest now, and not withhold. Finally, he mumbles, and she can't hear him. When she tells him so, he just shakes his head. "He's never going to be ready to come back, is he?"

For the briefest of moments, she considers letting him believe what he does about his parents. She considers what it might mean, what it would cost, really, overall, if she allowed him to add this to the list of reasons twelve will be a hard one, for both of them. She considers forcing him to grow up with her.

Mimi steps closer, putting her hands to his cheeks, and raises his face. "Listen to me. Your dad's going through a lot of really hard stuff right now. It's not something he wants you to see, until he's better. But he will, okay? He's doing his best, but he has to do it his way, and we have to be patient with him, because that's what it means to love someone."

He's still quiet, but he still lets her hold him, so she still does.

Then he says, "I don't love Dad."

She tries to explain, "No, honey, you're just upset with him, and that's okay."

"No," and he shakes his head firmly. "I'm not. I know how I feel."

Mimi doesn't challenge him that time. Instead she asks, "How do you feel?"

He thinks about the question for a minute. "I think…I'm okay. There's a lot of kids who don't have both their parents. There was one girl in my class last year who's adopted, just like Uncle Kou, and another girl whose dad died when she was a baby, sort of like with Uncle Iori. And some kids' parents are divorced, too, like the way Uncle Takeru and Auntie 'Kari are, or how Aunt Sora's parents are. So I guess, I know I'm not alone." He continues, deliberate with his words, "Sometimes moms and dads just have to leave, and I know that. I know Dad left because he was hurting you, in your heart. And that's what I mean about being okay, Mom, because I don't want to love anyone who hurts you."

It's hard to speak, but she makes herself do it anyway. "Okay. I hear you. But I want you hear me on this, all right?"

He looks at her with that same serious, small face.

She touches her hand to his cheek. "Sometimes we love each other with our words, the way your Aunt Miyako does with all her funny stories, or how Uncle Michael likes to call us when he's driving home from work, just to say hi. And sometimes we love each other with our actions, like how your Uncle Yamato takes you to practice every weekend and to all your away games, or whenever your Auntie Catherine sneaks you candy. Sometimes we love each other with our habits, like Uncle Jou every time he takes your temperature when he visits us, even if you're not sick, or how Uncle Ken or Auntie Meiko always check your tires before they let you ride your bike, even if you've just ridden it the day before."

His face has gotten red, his eyes growing wider and brighter with welled up tears, and Mimi holds his face with both hands now.

"Your dad, he loves us by choosing to get the help he needs to love us better. I'm really, really proud of him for that, because it's really, really hard to admit you need help, and even harder to ask for it. You don't need to understand that right now. But I promise, no one has ever loved their baby as much as your dad loves you."

He pitches forward, pressing his face to her stomach, arms around her waist. She almost sinks down to her knees to be able to hold him better, closer, but this is enough right now, standing over hunched in the middle of the sidewalk. She smooths back his hair, stroking the skin behind his ear, marveling at every little perfect curve to his face.

After a while, he pulls back only just enough to look up at her, sniffling. "Can we call him, after dinner?"

She kisses his forehead. "Yes."

"Can it just be me and him?"

"Okay, baby."

He nods, still sniffling, and she pulls the sleeve of her jacket down over her hand to wipe his nose. He allows this affection, face fixed in a suddenly thoughtful pout. She cups his chin. "What is it?"

His face has never been more serious. "Can we please go home before Grandpa really does start cooking dinner? I don't want to lie to him about liking whatever it is."

Mimi laughs, pulling her son close again in a warm hug, and they returned to their walk, hand in hand. "It was a lot worse when you were a really little baby and I was still on bedrest. All four grandparents and your dad in the kitchen, arguing about how to boil a potato, and still getting it wrong."

"What'd you do?"

"Oh, we had help. All your aunts and uncles—it takes a village."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Still working on bringing back a lot of my old works, but in the meantime working on this drabble/short series with some familiar parts. More soon.


End file.
